


Who else is gonna put up with me this way

by Ferrera



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Borussia Dortmund, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: “You weren’t in Dortmund, were you,” Tuchel muses. He makes it sound casually, as if he always knows exactly what Auba’s up to, as if he knows him so fucking well, but there’s a hint of concern in his eyes. It’d make him mad, the way Tuchel acts as if he’s the goddamn master of all wisdom, if it didn’t only show Auba that he has no fucking clue at all, that he’s just trying to conceal what he doesn’t know.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when Auba was dropped from the squad for the BVB – Sporting game because of “internal reasons”? I finally managed to finish this fic about it. Long story short – I cannot deal with Thomas Tuchel and how goddamn admiringly he talks about his players, even when he’s mad at them. (Also, after watching so many press conferences, I’ve become somewhat obsessed with Tuchel/Sascha Fligge as a pairing, too bad I doubt anyone will ever write them.)
> 
> This has some loose ties to [Not a style I take any pride in](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7703407) but can easily be read without having read that one.

 

Marco bumps into his back on the way to the dressing room. “Rough night, eh,” he says, smiling that stupid crooked grin of his. Auba smiles back faintly as Marco falls into step beside him.

“Well, at least I hope you had fun,” Marco continues when Auba doesn’t offer him more of an answer.

“Was alright,” Auba says and shrugs. Marco pretty much drops the topic, then, starts talking about how glad he is that he’s back in training with them, how much he’s looking forward to get back on the pitch, but as they walk into the dressing room, he says, “don’t worry, yeah, you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, bro,” Auba says as he pulls off his shirt, “you better be right.”

“You’re his favourite, anyway,” Marco adds with a playful grin, pinching Auba’s side, and Auba rolls his eyes, because if _anyone’s_ Tuchel’s favourite, it’s _Marco_ , goddamnit.

 

He stays under the shower longer than necessary, soaking up the comforting warmth of the hot stream. It only makes him feel a little better. Tuchel didn’t even make him run any extra laps but he feels worn out, bone tired. They’re only nine rounds into the season and already eight points behind Bayern, the missed opportunities and dropped points already starting to feel like a burden on his shoulders. To think of the incredibly long road they’ve got ahead of them distresses him more than it excites him.

When he walks out of the showers, most of his teammates are already gone. Ousmane’s still hanging around as if he’s waiting for him, stealing glances at the Gabonese from across his locker, but Auba tells him to go and have lunch with the other youngsters.

He changes into a grey hoodie and matching sweatpants, then takes his time doing his hair. It doesn’t do much for his overall appearance. He still looks rough, bags under his eyes, stubble not looking as neat as he’d like since he hadn’t had time to shave this morning. He sits down onto the bench and catches up with his Instagram, Facebook and Twitter feeds. Once he gets a snap from Marco, already out for lunch with Mario, he decides he’s made Tuchel wait long enough.

 

When he gets to his manager’s office, he knocks twice, then opens the door before Tuchel’s had the chance to tell him to come in. Tuchel’s standing by the window behind his desk. His arms are crossed, his shoulders tense. He turns around as Auba walks in. He raises an eyebrow, that typical unimpressed, almost condescending look he usually shoots at obnoxious journalists in his eyes.

“Auba,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice, “close the door, will you.”

He hadn’t been exactly sure what to expect – he’s never done anything like this before. He knew Tuchel’d be mad at him, even if he hadn’t let in show during training, but it unsettles him anyway, to see the annoyance in his trainer’s eyes, to hear the frustration in his voice directed at him. Determined not to let it show, he shifts his heel back against the door until he hears it click shut, then leans back against the woodwork, his eyes not leaving Tuchel’s. He pushes his hands in his pockets and waits.

Tuchel sighs and gestures towards the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit down, please,” he says, his voice as cold as his piercing blue eyes. He’s still in his training gear. It’s making him look younger, more boyish than he really is, less of a manager and more like one of them. It had kind of made Auba assume that he wouldn’t be acting so formal. He doesn’t want to have a talk about his responsibilities and duties, doesn’t want Tuchel to behave so goddamn distant and cold towards him.

“Coach,” he says as he walks up to Tuchel, aiming for casually, hands still in his pockets, “look, I overslept, okay--”

“You overslept,” Tuchel repeats, a sceptical tone to his voice. His head is canted, both eyebrows raised.

“The baby,” Auba starts as he comes to a halt in front of Tuchel, “he still keeps us up a lot at ni-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Tuchel interrupts, voice sharp and warning. He steps towards Auba, closing the distance between them, and brings his index finger up to Auba’s mouth, barely an inch away from his lips. Tuchel’s not that much taller than he is, but now that they’re standing so close, Auba has to look up to meet his eyes. Auba swallows hard. He’s not sure what he’s hoping to get out of this, either, hasn’t let himself think it that far through.  
  
“Don’t lie to me, Auba,” Tuchel says. He draws his hand away. “You weren’t in Dortmund, were you,” he muses. He makes it sound casually, as if he always knows exactly what Auba’s up to, as if he knows him so fucking well, but there’s a hint of concern in his eyes. It’d make him mad, the way Tuchel acts as if he’s the goddamn master of all wisdom, if it didn’t only show Auba that he has no fucking clue at all, that he’s just trying to conceal what he doesn’t know. If anything, it makes him feel like he’s holding some power over Tuchel, seeing that it bothers him, not knowing where he’s been, and it’s more than a little satisfying.

He knows Auba’d been out, of that he’s sure – hell, Tuchel can probably still smell the alcohol on his breath. There’s no way, though, no way he knows that at the break of dawn, Auba’d been on the plane from Milan back to Dortmund – he’d be fucking fuming if he knew. Auba’s not exactly sure what he wants from this, what he wants from _Tuchel_ , but something itches inside him, a fire he wants to ignite, making him shudder in anticipation.

“I was in Milan.”

A mix of satisfaction and guilt washes over him as he watches Tuchel’s features go from calm and composed to astounded. For a brief moment, he looks at Auba in complete disbelief, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Then he throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, harsh laugh that reminds Auba of Kloppo, and god, he wouldn’t be in this situation if Kloppo’d still be here. He’d never have tried to provoke Kloppo the slightest bit, he’d never have wanted to fight Kloppo, never wanted his former manager to fight _him_ – to have his fingers digging into his skin, his fists slamming into his chest, his teeth scraping across his jaw—

“ _Milan_ ,” Tuchel snorts, facing Auba again.

“It was my sister-in-law’s birthday--” Auba starts, seized with a sudden urge to defend himself, but Tuchel cuts him off.

“You went to a party in fucking _Italy_ even though we have a Champions League game tomorrow, you were late for training and then you _lied_ to me about it.” He’s never shouted at Auba off the pitch before. What’s worse is the disappointment in his eyes.

“Auba,” Tuchel says, completely calm and composed again, “you’re not playing tomorrow.”

“What--” he stammers, “no, coach, please, I can play tomorrow--” he grabs Tuchel’s wrist and _oh_ , if this was Kloppo he would never want to be so close, but there’s something he wants from Tuchel that he’s never wanted from anyone before, never wanted Kloppo’s approval like he _craves_ Tuchel’s. Anger and confusion flash across the older man’s face. He jerks his wrist away, then places his hand on Auba’s upper arm. He turns it out slightly, his grip firm. If only he’d twist his arm a little further, press a little harder, Auba’d have a proper reason to offer some resistance, to push back, justifying the urge to fight his coach, allowing himself to touch him.

Tuchel doesn’t. Instead, he loosens his grip, and whatever Auba’s been trying to push for fades. Tuchel sighs and shakes his head. When he looks back up at Auba, all traces of anger are gone, only disappointment left.

“Auba, you’re 27,” he starts and Auba can’t stand the disappointment in his voice, hates to let him down more than anything, but if that’s what it has to take—

“You’re a father of two children,” he continues. Auba swallows hard. He tenses his bicep to feel Tuchel’s fingers straining around it, but instead, he draws his hand away. “You’ve been at this club for three years now,” he says, voice all formal again, “I expect you to behave as a role model for the younger boys.”

He had never thought it would be so different with Mats, Ilkay and Micky gone and Marco still injured, hadn’t thought he’d suddenly have so much responsibility with all the new, young boys coming in. He still thinks, occasionally, what if he’d left in summer? A new club, a new city—Manchester, Madrid, it’s all the same, anyway, the expectations to live up to, the pressure to perform, always more goals he should’ve scored, but at least there would have been others to lead the way.

“I can play,” he says, closing his fingers around Tuchel’s forearm, “coach, I can play.” Tuchel inhales sharply as Auba digs his fingers into his manager’s skin. He doesn’t let go as Tuchel’s eyes flicker across his face, eyebrows knitted together as if he’s trying to figure him out. Tuchel doesn’t jerk his arm away. Auba puts his other hand on his manager’s chest, not exactly pressing, merely steadying himself a little.

“Auba,” Tuchel says, sounding vaguely warning. His features have gone all soft, his eyes concerned. Auba can see it clearly, then, sees that his manager cares for him, but he needs more of that, more of Tuchel’s admiration, _anything_ he can get from his manager, and if he can’t get him to fight him, he might as well—

He leans in, his stubble scraping against Tuchel’s and his manager _lets_ him, fucking _lets_ Auba press his lips to his and coax his mouth open with his tongue, pushing inside. For a second, Auba can feel Tuchel moving into the touch, but then he draws his mouth away. He looks at Auba in earnest, brows furred, and as Auba self-consciously loosens his grip on Tuchel’s forearm, he pulls his arm away. Tuchel drags his hands up and closes them around Auba’s upper arms, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Auba,” he starts, sounding a little confused, concerned, still, but not mad or disappointed, “what--”

“Coach,” Auba says hastily, “what you’re asking of me-- I can’t--” He fists his hands in Tuchel’s training jacket, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “I can’t always--” he stutters again, needing to make Tuchel understand him, to make him see that he can’t live up to all the expectations. He’s been trying so hard, scoring goals out of the smallest opportunities, taking the youngsters in tow when they’re struggling to keep up, helping his defenders out when there’s a sudden counter attack, but he can’t be fucking everywhere on the pitch, no matter how fast he is. He can’t always be who Tuchel expects him to be and he just wants his manager to look at him the way he sees him looking at young Felix, Ousmane, Emre and the others, astonished by how fast they learn, how quick they adjust, the way he looks at _Marco_ as he shows his magic, his eyes full of admiration and pride.

“Please,” he says, fingers digging into Tuchel’s sides. Tuchel brings a hand up to his face and cups his cheek. He doesn’t say a word, just keeps looking at Auba with that bothered look in his eyes, and Auba’s been _wishing_ for him to see through him, to make him see how desperate, how out of control he’s been feeling lately, but the thought that he actually might makes his cheeks heat up in shame.

“Coach, I need—” he stammers, searching for the words, but even if he’d find them he could never bring himself to say them out loud. He’s already crossed so many lines, even if most of them only exist inside his head, he can’t reveal any more of himself than he’s already done, not when his deepest desires are also the ones he fears the most. “I need you to—” he stutters, bucking his hips up against Tuchel’s. He can hardly meet Tuchel’s eyes as realisation dawns on his face, but to look away would be to surrender. Tuchel brushes his thumb along Auba’s cheekbone, the palm of his hand warm against his cheek.

“I should’ve-- Auba, you should’ve talked to me,” he says, and he looks so concerned, so protective and caring it fills Auba with delight, warmth spreading through his body.

“Coach, I know-- I should’ve,” he tries, tongue tripping over the words, “I just couldn’t-- I can’t--”

Tuchel just watches him, not saying a word, seemingly waiting for him to fucking finish his sentences already. He looks kind of hesitant, though, eyes searching for something as if he’s considering how far he’s willing to take this. Auba keeps his eyes locked with Tuchel’s, challenging him, trying not to think about how he’s playing the same sick games Marco always plays with _him_ , the way Marco always pushes for more, making him give in, leaving him feeling as if his body betrays him.

“Tell me what you want,” Tuchel says, then, his voice steady and calm and Auba’s relieved that he’s so composed, needs his manager to stay in control as he feels himself falling apart at the seams.

He could hardly stand to see Marco break down in front of his eyes, desperately clinging onto him, asking more of him than Auba could ever give him. There’s no way he could reveal himself to Marco the way Marco exposes himself to Auba. Marco could never take away his fears and insecurities, could never be there for him the way he tries to be there for Marco – Auba’d never let him. He’d never let Marco see through him, never put himself in such a vulnerable position in front of him.

“Auba, you’ve got to tell me what you want,” Tuchel says again, his tone serious but his eyes softer, caring. He slides a hand down to his waist, slowly stroking his side.

If there’s anyone Auba’d allow himself to show his insecurities to, if there’s anyone he’d trust to take care of him, it’s Tuchel, but he can’t get himself to ask of him what he’s denied himself for so long, the words stuck in his throat. “Coach, please,” he says, taking Tuchel’s hand and guiding it to the front of his sweatpants. He sees his pupils widen, his lips parting slightly as if he’s going to protest, lips already forming around the first syllable of his name. Auba doesn’t press, but he keeps his manager’s hand there, his fingers laced over Tuchel’s, feeling the heat of his palm radiating through the fabric of his sweatpants.

Tuchel doesn’t pull his hand away. He brings his other hand up to Auba’s neck, pressing his palm to Auba’s heated skin, thumb rubbing across his throat. Auba’s head is spinning with the sound of blood rushing through his ears and his heart beating in his throat. Tuchel must be able to feel it racing against his palm and it makes him feel so exposed, his body giving him away, showing Tuchel how bad he wants this without saying it, the way he’s breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, dick half-hard against his palm.

“If you need me to take care of you, I will,” Tuchel says, tipping Auba’s chin up, “but you’ve got to tell me you want me to.” He brushes the pad of his thumb across Auba’s lower lip. Auba’s breath hitches. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes briefly, exhales, then looks back up to his manager.

“I want you to,” he says, voice hoarse. He hadn’t thought it could possibly feel like a relief to say those words, but it feels good to put control in Tuchel’s hands, to let him take it from here.

Tuchel cups the side of his face again, looking at Auba with such admiration in his eyes that it makes him feel sick with anticipation. He brings his other hand to the nape of Auba’s neck. He draws him closer and presses his mouth to Auba’s, tongue tracing his lower lip. Auba parts his lips willingly, letting his manager push inside. He fists his hands back in the fabric of the older man’s training jacket, pulling him closer. Tuchel’s hands slide down his sides, his wide palms settling around his waist, keeping him steady. It feels so reassuring, so good to feel his manager’s lips against his, to have his comforting hands on him, so satisfying he feels himself rapidly growing harder in his sweats.

He bucks his hips up against Tuchel’s again, dick rubbing against the hollow of his hips. Tuchel breaks the kiss and turns Auba around. He slides an arm across his stomach, curls his fingers around his hipbone and pulls him to his chest. He drags his other hand down to Auba’s crotch, cupping his dick through his sweats.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs against Auba’s throat, stubble scraping against his skin. He slips his hand down the younger man’s sweatpants, inside his boxers, and closes his fingers around Auba’s dick. Auba gasps at the touch, his head falling back against his manager’s shoulder. Tuchel starts to stroke him slow and steady. With his other hand, he works Auba’s sweats and boxers halfway down his thighs. Auba glances down to see Tuchel’s hand wrapped around his cock. He feels his cheeks heat up at the sight of it, dick fully hard, almost entirely covered by Tuchel’s wide palm, leaking precome already. It scares him, how much he wants this, fills him with shame to see himself getting so hard and yet he can’t look away, keeps watching his cock sliding through his manager’s fist. Tuchel swipes his thumb across the slit and Auba groans, digging his fingers into his thighs to keep himself from making any more embarrassing noises.

Tuchel strokes him a little faster, his hand tight around his dick, slick with precome. Auba’s barely able to keep back his moans, digs his nails deeper into his skin, but they’re too short to cause any pain. Tuchel slips his other hand under Auba’s hoodie, placing it low on his stomach. He turns his head to the side of Auba’s face, mouth pressed to his ear. “It’s okay to want this,” he says as he rubs his thumb over the younger man’s abs, “whatever you want, it’s okay.” His words are so reassuring, his soft, warm touches so affectionate, almost making him feel hazy, dazed, his mind going peacefully quiet. He’s been trying not to lean his full weight against Tuchel, but his legs are starting to go weak, knees shaking a little, and he gives in, leaning back against Tuchel’s solid chest. He feels his manager half-hard against the swell of his ass and it’s a relief, knowing that he’s getting off on this as well.

“You’ve been doing so well,” Tuchel tells him, jerking him rough and fast, his palm slick with sweat and precome. Auba’d been desperate to hear those words, so fucking desperate for Tuchel’s approval that it fills him with pride, heart fucking swelling with it. He turns his face towards Tuchel’s, lifts his head a little and presses his lips to the corner of his manager’s mouth, chasing his sweet kisses. He feels Tuchel’s mouth curving into a smile against his lips before he tilts his head a little and kisses Auba, slow and open-mouthed.

“You’ve been so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing against Auba’s cheek, “so good.” The words make his head spin, leave him feeling hot all over, glowing with his manager’s praise, dizzy with his affection. He’s so close, dick throbbing in Tuchel’s fist. He frantically bucks up into his hand, making Tuchel stroke him just that little bit faster, a little tighter. His head lolls to the side and Tuchel presses a kiss to his temple.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs into his ear and Auba’s coming, spilling all over his hand. “There you go,” he says in a hushed voice, slowly strokes Auba through it. He switches to German, then, mumbling sweet nothings against his cheek, too quiet for Auba to understand over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

Tuchel lets Auba lean against him as he tries to catch his breath. The older man wipes his hand on his track pants, then tucks Auba’s dick back into his boxers and pulls his sweats up. He rests his hands on Auba’s waist and presses another kiss to his temple. The relief he feels is so fucking blissful and overwhelming he feels lightheaded with it, but Tuchel’s hands are tight around his waist, anchoring him. Auba contentedly leans back against his manager, his breath slowly evening out. It’s only when his ears stop buzzing and his mind becomes a little clearer that he realises Tuchel’s still hard, feeling his dick pressing tight against the swell of his ass. His cheeks heat up, the urge to please Tuchel washing over him once again. He twists around in his manager’s hold and slips a hand down between them. He cups Tuchel through his track pants, but the other man grabs his wrist.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says firmly, pulling Auba’s hand away from his crotch.

“Maybe I want to,” Auba counters, warmth pooling in his stomach as he watches Tuchel adjusting himself in his track pants. Tuchel smiles, but shakes his head anyway.

“Go home and get some rest,” he says, taking Auba’s face in both hands, “we need you to be fit on Saturday.” He presses a brief kiss to his forehead, then lets go of him. Auba still feels a little shaky and dazed, not entirely ready for Tuchel to let go of him, and from the way Tuchel’s lips twitch into a smile he can tell that it must be showing on his face. Tuchel ruffles his hair and grins at him, eyes full of fondness, grounding him a little. Auba runs a hand through his hair and straightens his clothes, but before he leaves, he turns back to Tuchel.

“You’ll miss me tomorrow, though,” he smirks, “but I’ll win us the game on Saturday.”

“We’ll see,” Tuchel says, one eyebrow raised, but Auba doesn’t miss the twinkle in his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I was super hesitant to write Auba like this at first but now that I’ve gotten used to it I kind of want to write him sucking Tuchel’s dick. Oh well.
> 
> Title is from Off to the Races by Lana Del Rey and I stole the master of all wisdom quote from Louis Tomlinson. Oh and the game Auba's referring to is the HSV-BVB match in which he scored four goals.
> 
> I’m basically hoping someone feels encouraged to write Tuchel/any of his players. Anyway thanks for reading!


End file.
